A little sugar in the bowl
by Pinerug
Summary: Pirbright. Phase 2. A Saturday night in Guildford.


**Pirbright. Phase 2. A Saturday night in Guildford.**

I ain't got a scooby why I said I'd go. Rugby ain't really my thing. It's dead weird watching them pick up the ball instead of kicking it, and I ain't got the foggiest what's going on most of the time, but well, they said we could have the day and an evening pass if we was going to the match, and you don't look a gift horse in the mouth do you? I'd watch paint dry if it meant I could get me chops round a pint or two and a ruby, so watching a bunch of Ruperts clump the crap out of each other in the name of 'regimental honour' is a small price to pay.

Pity it's bleedin taters though. We're all stomping our feet and wishing we'd put on an extra pair of socks by the time we're 10 minutes in. There's a heavy drizzle, it's not really falling, more swirling around us, clinging to our clothes and faces and slowly soaking us through. I lean over to Maz "How long does one of these games go on for?" I ask "Dunno" she shrugs "can't be more than an hour I reckon, then its bus to town and crack on some serious drinking" I hear a snigger from behind us, a low whisper that I can't make out and more laughter. There's a bit of jostling and one of them gets pushed forward and stumbles into the back of Bex. "Oi, watch it" she turns and glowers behind her. "Ooh, looks like we've got a feisty one here" comes a Welsh voice and all his mates chorus "ooh" before laughing as if it's the funniest thing they've ever heard. "Knobhead" mutters Bex, loud enough so they can hear. Amy giggles and glances over her shoulder then turning back to us she pulls a face before turning her attention to the game. "That's better, but should have bought my bins, feel like I'm missing out on some quality viewing."

"Perv" I nudge her as Lt Harper runs past, spattered in mud, the ball tucked under his arm. He's closely followed by four big buggers off the other side, thundering behind him. Just as they look like they are about to catch him he swerves to one side and sprints away, passing the ball to someone else. Amy is practically drooling over Harper, she's got a bit of a thing for him. Can't say I feel the same. Firstly he's a Rupert, so there's that, secondly he's our bastard PT instructor and he seems to spend every session shouting at me. "Push yourself Dawes!" he yells, his face the colour of corned beef, veins on his neck popping out. I'd like to give him a push; preferably under a bus. Amy on the other hand can't get enough of him. She goes to every extra session even though she's the fittest of us all, strong as a bleedin ox she is. Probably because she goes to anything he runs. Latest one was bloody Brazilian Jiu-Jitzu. Course when she signed up we just reckoned she ain't noticed the second J and was volunteering for something else entirely.

The game drags on, the drizzle is getting heavier and starting to seep through the lining of my coat. Nan swore blind this was one of them proper jackets what them country walking types use, gortex or some bollocks, but it leaks at the seams in anything heavier than mist. Every time I shuffle another drop of cold water trickles down my neck and I have to do a lot of shuffling to keep my feet from turning into blocks of ice. I don't understand what the hell is going on on the pitch they're always stopping and starting an no one seems to score a goal.

The blokes behind us are getting fractious. They apparently understand what's happening. They're groaning and sucking air through their teeth every time a ball is dropped or someone tackles someone else. As the match goes on my wet hair is soaking the back of my t shirt and I'm worried I might freeze to death. They get louder, yelling at the ref and bitching about how crap their team is doing. This sort of conversation I understand, I ain't a Hammer for nothing.

Half time comes at last and we stomp our feet a bit more and think about nipping to the bogs. I reckon it's worth the rain sodden, muddy walk just to try and dry my soaked hair. Maz don't agree. She don't want to get her boots any muddier. She hates cleaning her boots. I trudge to the sports block, the rain soaking through my jacket and I curse Nan and her knock-off gear. My boots are caked in wet sludgy mud and I know I'm gonna have to clean them before inspection tomorrow. I wish I had more cash for another pair. God only knows why I splashed the last of my pay on that pair of killer heels and not something more functional. Actually that's the reason why I bought them. Part of me was happy to leave that dressing up shit behind me, but then some days I want to feel more attractive, like I used to. Dress up, make an effort and that. So that's why I spent me last quid on the most ridiculous shoes you've ever seen. Shame I've forgotten how to walk in heels. I stomp about like some tranny and ended up turning my heel over as I showed them off to Amy and Bex.

I pat my hair down with a handful of paper towels and then commandeer the hand dryer so I can dry off my shirt. I strip off the soaking, definitely not waterproof jacket and my top, and give the worst bits a blast under the dryer. One good thing about days like this is that there ain't never a queue for the women's bogs. I'm stood in a empty bogs in my bra and jeans when suddenly the door bursts open and a young bloke falls onto the floor. He rolls over, banging his head against the bottom of one of the cubicles. "What the fuck.." I shout but I'm cut off by a roar of wolf whistles and yells of "nice bra love, now show us your tits!" And I realise I'm stood in front of half the away supporters in a manky old bra. I snatch my top and hold it in front of me, too bloody little too late. The door slams shut on the voices outside as the bloke who was pushed through the door tries to get to his feet. He's stumbling a bit like he's half cut already, but then I realise he ain't drunk, just holding his hand in front of himself, his head dropped down so as not to look at me. "Sorry" he says, and he might sound sincere but I'm fuming from the cat-calls outside. "I'm really sorry. My mates, they're a bit over the top. They don't get out much." He glances up at me, he's got blue eyes and quite a round, boyish face. He grins and gives me a wink. The cheeky fucking bastard. I see red.

"Get the fuck out of here you fucking pervert" I scream at him, pulling the damp shirt over my head. I ain't sure you can be that dignified with your head stuck inside damp polyester with your gut hanging out but I'll settle for bloody fuming.

"I was bursting. Me mates pushed me in. I had no idea" he's trying not to laugh, I can tell by the way he's losing the battle against the great big grin that's spreading over his face. "Do I look like I give a monkeys? Why can't you just piss against the hedge like the rest of them, or do you need extra help telling which one's your dick or just an extra long pube?" I'm proud of that one, given the circumstances. There's a bang on the door "Oi Smurf! You giving her one or what?" One of his mates, no doubt. "Probably come in his pants already" comes another comment followed by more laughter. He blushes, his skin flushing salmon pink.

"Why are you still here?" I ask, reaching for my jacket. It's wet and cold and the lining clings to my skin as I try and force my arms into the sleeves. "Do I have to chuck you out myself?" I don't want to walk out that door, it's going to be mortifying. I want him out first. He can bear the brunt of this.

"I've never seen a West Ham fan before he says as I zip my jacket up over my shirt "I never thought anyone was mug enough to support such a bunch of losers" he's hitting his stride now, he must think he's being cheeky or funny or something. I ain't in the mood.

"Piss off you pervy Welsh tosser, and take your sad mates with you" I storm to the door. If he ain't gonna move then I have to. Facing whatever is waiting for me outside is preferable to what will be said if I stay here. I can't think too much about it or else I'll never move. This is the sort of shit that gets you a nickname that stays with you for the rest of your service and beyond. I'm quite partial to Dawsey and don't want to swap it for sugartits or wonderbra or something else even less appealing. I swing the door open and every single bloke outside starts on about my tits. I can feel my cheeks flaming but I ain't gonna give them an inch. I flip my finger up at them and turn back towards the girls. Another roar goes up behind me and I can't stop myself from glancing back as the bloke emerges from the bogs, lapping up the attention like he's some returning bloody hero.

* * *

The girls all think it's bloody hilarious. Amy even peels her attention away from Harper, or more precisely Harper's shorts, to have a good laugh. I can sort of see it's funny, but every time someone walks past and makes a crack about my tits I sort of lose the joke again. Truth is I'm bloody mortified but I can't let anyone see that. If I do then they'll never lay off it and I still got a lot more of me phase 2 to get through.

The second half kicks off and I'm grateful for the distraction. Well I am until I realise the bloke from the toilet and his mates are standing behind us. Why do I have such shitty luck? I hoped they would be concentrating on the game, but their side is getting well and truly stuffed by ours and their attention is starting to wander. Soon one spots me. "Oi love" he taps me on the shoulder "I hope you were gentle on our Smurf. What with it being his first time" They all laugh at this "Did you bleed, Smurf?" another asks. This is met with a muffled "Piss off" and a bit of a scuffle. I try and ignore them as best I can.

"You've done us a favour" continues the one who must be the instigator of all this. He's tall, his face is pinched, possibly from staring into the cold sleet, but I'd put good money on that being his normal look. His hair is cropped close, droplets of water collecting on the spiky ends. "We was beginning to think maybe Smurf here was never going to see a woman with no clothes on, was we Smurf?" He grabs Smurf and tucks him under his arm, rubbing his head in a way that's supposed to look friendly but has too much of an edge of tormenting to it to be genuine. Smurf don't even try to wiggle free. If I was feeling more charitable I might feel sorry for him, but because of him I've just flashed me norks at half of Pirbright so I ain't feeling charitable.

"Always happy to help the less fortunate" I say, trying to brush the comments off. I tug at Maz's sleeve and nod my head back towards barracks. "I'm gonna get back and start getting ready" I tell her. I widen my eyes, silently asking her to come too. "OK?" She don't catch on. Sometimes she ain't the sharpest. "Not staying for the rest?" She asks. "Nah. Ain't in the mood and I'm gonna need all the time I can to get ready after this" I motion to my soaking wet hair that's plastered to my head. "Besides, I reckon the result is in the bag. This Catterick lot obviously couldn't win a rigged bingo game" I say this bit extra loud for the benefit of the away supporters behind us. She shrugs and relays the message to Bex and Amy. Amy ain't going nowhere, I know that. Not unless Harper gets sent off and that ain't his style. Me and Maz leave them to it and head back to the dry.

* * *

"Steady on Molls" Bex leans over the table to try and take the shot glass from my hand. The sambuca is sticky, sickly sweet and tastes one step up from cough mixture. It burns my throat going down and I splutter as a bit goes the wrong way. I ain't listening. I've got the taste for the booze and I'm hitting it hard tonight. Partly cause it seems like an age since I last got out, and partly to put this afternoon out of my mind.

Leaving the barracks was an ordeal in itself. Maz and me had got back early and got a shower before the hot water ran out. Maybe it was the comments, maybe I just felt it had been too long since I'd made an effort, but I decided to go all out tonight. I dried and did my hair like the old days, teasing it into a fancy do letting the curls tumble across my shoulders. I put on me best undies, a black lacy bra that pushed my boobs up somewhere under my chin. Tight dress that don't leave much to the imagination and them new heels. A face full of slap. I was making the effort. The whistles I got at the guard room was proof that it had been worth it.

Of course the bleedin bus never showed. We waited and waited, and nothing, meaning we had to get a taxi so we're down on cash before we even start out. Maz had the brilliant idea of going from bar to bar pretending that it's one of our's 21st to see if we can score some free drinks. It's actually worked in a few places; got a bottle of fizzy wine at one place, and the sambucas here. Given the fact I've been off the booze for months and ain't eaten since lunch the drinks have gone straight to my head. I'm turning into a right lightweight these days.

We're moving from bar to bar, never staying for more than a couple in each, which when they're shots can be fast enough to make your head spin. If it ain't already spinning in the first place. Perhaps Bex is right. Maybe I should be taking it easy. My feet hurt like hell. I'm not used to heels my shins are smarting with every step, the balls of my feet throbbing. I swear I could lose circulation to my toes. If I could feel them. Luckily the vodka and sambuca are acting like an anesthetic and I'm not feeling much. Well nothing much if you don't count the complete humiliation from earlier today. The memory of it keeps floating to the surface of my mind, like a turd you can't flush away. I keep on trying to get rid of it, mainly by pouring vodka down me neck. God only knows what I'll be facing on Monday morning after the news has gone round the barracks.

We're on the move again; tottering down the street, the balls of my feet feel like they're on fire. It's chilly now, the rain has eased off leaving the pavements shiny and wet, the lights reflecting off the ground, all pretty and sparkly. Maz is pulling at my arm, "Come on Molls" she's tugging me along and each step sends a jolt of pain up my shins "stop daydreaming, it's freezing". "I need to sit down" I'm whining like one of the kids, I can hear it in my voice. "I can't be traipsing to all these pubs. I need a sit down. My plates are killing me"

"Next place. I swear. We'll find a seat and stay there" she promises "just get a bloody move on."

* * *

This place is a dive. If you can easily find a seat in a pub on a Saturday night when the barracks have given out a late pass then you know it's a shithole. It's almost dead, but the seats are comfy, or at least I'm in no fit state to notice otherwise, the booze is cheap and I'm going nowhere but the bogs and the kebab shop for the rest of the night.

Sitting down is bliss. A cold cider in front of me to slow down the pace, and me best mates around me. For the first time all day I'm not bothered about what happened at the rugby. I don't even care when they start on a mild bit of piss taking. I know it's a friendly thing and I don't have a problem with that. We all have our turn. If it weren't me we'd be taking the mick out of Bex and her crush on Harper. She for one enjoyed her time at the match, it's given her enough material to work off a fair bit of frustration for a while.

Being serious for a bit I do think she needs to cool it a bit around him; I might be biased what with him being a bellend and everything but we all know stories about officers who seem to view new recruits as fair game. I don't want him taking advantage or Bex being part of some bet between him and the other Ruperts. Look, but don't touch. Not that I reckon he's much to look at in the first place. He's ever so blonde. His eyebrows sort of disappear into his face, he reminds me of a rat, his face all pinched and rodenty. I like em dark. Dark eyes. Brooding. I get it from me mum. She likes Johnny Depp. God knows why she settled for me dad he's about as far from Johnny Depp as you can get.

I should have learned by now that any good time in my life is going to be short lived. As usual life likes to crap on me from a great height. I get up to go to the bar, and who should walk in but that crowd of gobshites from Catterick. That tall one who obviously thinks he's all that starts up singing Kaiser Chiefs, except he changes the words. "Booby, booby, booby, booby!" He sings at the top of his voice. Of course aside from us there's about five people in the pub, and it's dead quiet, no music, no telly or nothing. Everyone stares at me. It's obvious that the ground ain't going to open up and swallow me, coz I ain't that lucky. He sidles up to me at the bar "We've got to stop meeting like this" he grins down at me, he's eyes ain't really focused so it feels like he's looking somewhere around my ears. "Next time I meet you mate you're gonna be taking your knackers home in a sandwich bag" I reply, turning away from him and stepping up on that rail they have running around the bar. When you're as short as me you need all the help you can get. The barman has bloody disappeared, probably gone off for a fag or taken the a newspaper to to the bogs; it's that bloody dead here.

"If you want a feel of my balls you only need to ask" he says "I wouldn't normally go for Smurf's sloppy seconds, but I'm happy to make an exception for you" he leans over, he's a tall bugger, and stares down my cleavage. Its times like this I miss the old MTP, the layers of green and khaki that cover you, flattening you out, making you part of the furniture. I ain't used to being noticed and despite what they reckoned in the guardroom I don't know if I'm that comfy with it no more. If there's one thing you can say for the uniform, it's a universal passion killer. I would defy a supermodel to look attractive in one of them jumpers we get issued. They give you lumps in places you never knew you had them. Add a big smock and it's anyone's guess what is under it. Right now with rat boy dribbling down my front I'd give a small fortune for my big old smock.

"Miklar, stop being a prick" a hand slaps on his shoulder and he gets pulled away. It's that bloke from earlier. He's a lot smaller than his mate. In fact in these heels he ain't much taller than me. Miklar don't seem to take to being called a prick and squares up to him "What did you call me you little welsh runt?" "Just….just give it a rest eh?" his bravado seems to be crumbling a little as Miklar stares down at him. Miklar's swaying a little on his feet and his eyelids are drooping. He's obviously smashed out of his nut, and judging by the behaviour of his mate he could go either way right now. It seems like an age and I swear I've stopped breathing when a grin slowly spreads over Miklar's face and he slaps the guy round the shoulder; it's a half arsed attempt and it's more down luck than judgement that he manages to reach his shoulder "Want another crack at her eh?" Most people tend to look more attractive when they smile, but not Miklar, the smile looks grotesque, like one of them funny faces you see on old churches. "Be my guest" his swaying body lurches towards the back of the pub and the girls at my table "Plenty more snatch around here to go around"

"Sorry about him." his mate leans on the bar and smiles at me "never really made it in charm school"

"Is that what they call Catterick these days?" I barely look at him, keeping my attention behind the bar which is still empty.

"I'm Smurf by the way" he offers as if I was bloody interested.

"So I gather." I'm not even trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice. I don't say anything else but he don't go nowhere, just keeps standing there like a bloody lump. I'm not going to look in his direction but I can see him out of the corner of my eye. The barman still ain't made it back. I'm well hacked off by now.

Before I know it Smurf pushes himself up on the bar and vaults over it. "Right, what you having?" he asks me.

"You can't do that"

"I just did. Man could die of thirst waiting for a drink in this place" he spins around, looking for the glasses, finds one and starts pouring a lager from the pump.

"What you drinking?" he cranes his neck to look at our table then turning to the chiller takes out a couple of bottles of cider. "What are the others having, is that vodka and coke?"

"Jack Daniels for one, Bacardi for the other and Bex is on Archers and lemonade" he raises his eyebrows "don't ask" I add. That girl has the worst taste in pretty much everything.

"Let's make them doubles eh?" Smurf is pulling his third lager and pouring vodka shots at the same time "best get these over to the table before this guy gets back"

I start on ferrying the drinks over, feeling a bit guilty about it, but by the time I'm back at the bar Smurf has finished and is over our side again. He helps me with the last of the drinks. Miklar has taken up a seat next to Maz and I sit myself as far from him as possible and Smurf sits next to me on the bench, taking a sip from his pint before placing it on the table.

"Don't look at me like that, I left 20 quid on the bar"

I glance at the table, it's full of glasses; pints, shots, bottles. "Either the drinks in Catterick are dead cheap or you stiffed the pub."

"Just took a bit off for my labour didn't I? Serves them right if they can't man the bar when people want a drink." he grins at me raising his eyebrows, he's got a nice smile, cheeky almost boyish. He passes me a vodka shot "Drink up" he knocks his back. In for a penny in for a pound as Nan would say and I do the same, the liquid burns my throat on the way down and I grimace before taking a slug of cider to chase the taste away.

* * *

We must have been there hours, to be honest after the third shot I lost track of time. Smurf is sitting close, his thigh pressed up against me, his knee occasionally knocking mine as he shifts in his seat. I didn't notice at first, but it sort of floats in and out of my awareness as the evening wears on. I don't mind it truth be told. There are a lot worse places I could be.

Miklar is at the other end of the bench, his head lolling backwards and he's passed out propped up against a pile of coats. None of us is missing his contribution to the evening, the man is a grade A twat. He started off trying to chat up Maz, then she made her excuses and sat down our end of the table. Then Bex did the same. By that time his mates had cottoned on, shifting down between us and him. Smurf was well pleased with himself, god knows why. He ain't the smartest tool in the box if he can't work out that none of us can stand his mate and we're all trying to get away from him. He was grinning like he was that bloke with the playboy bunnies, so I reckon he thought we all fancied him, poor deluded bugger. I mean he's probably the best of the bunch but his competition ain't up to much.

"So, not much of a rugby fan, eh West Ham?" He nudges me, and I'm aware of him again, pressed against my side, he feels warm and solid, smelling of a little too much body spray.

"And I suppose you are?"

"I'm Welsh aren't I? Practically born holding a rugby ball"

"You might wanna get that looked at"

"Well, you're the medic." He sits back, spreading his knees wide and gestures to his crotch, raising an eyebrow.

"I wouldn't touch that if my life depended on it mate"

He smiles; he's like one of them weeble things, you knock him back and up he pops again grinning away like nothing happened.

"So why did you go to the game if you don't like it?"

"We got an evening pass if we did, so we went, and here we are" I gesture to the table, a sea of empties, glasses sitting in puddles of spilt drinks. "You? Oh no, you said. You just like wonky balls" He sips from his pint, a moustache of pale bubbles collect on his upper lip "If you're such a rugby fan why ain't you playing?"

"Probably for the same reason you ain't playing for West Ham?"

"What? You're a woman?"

He seems to think that's hilarious. He was taking a drink and he splutters on his pint then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "You're pretty funny for a cockney"

"And you're as funny as any Welsh wanker I've ever met" I realise I've been staring at his mouth for ages and for some reason I'm leaning towards him. I only notice when he reaches down to his pocket to pull out a packet of fags and the back of his hand brushes the side of my boob. I can feel myself flush the heat rising up my neck and other parts I don't want to think about. The pub suddenly feels warm, stifling, and the noise of the chatter from our table is making my head spin. I've lost count of how many drinks I've had, I can hear the blood rushing through my ears and the room is swirling.

I stumble to my feet. I think I'd be best off getting to the bogs. "Something I said, cockney?" Smurf yells after me "or is it just your round?" Wanker. I don't know where the lav is, the floor is pitching underneath me. I'm way more pissed than I thought.

"Molls" Amy is next to me, her hand underneath me holding me up. I dunno when my legs got so wobbly. "Need to be somewhere, eh?" I don't know how she got here, everything is all jerky and jumping about but I'm glad of the help, otherwise I'd probably be face down in the carpet by now.

She steers me out of the bar and we stumble through the door to the ladies with a crash, the tiled walls making every sound louder than it is, and the fake floral smell of disinfectant hits the back of my nose, making me heave. I make it in time, Amy holding my hair out of the pan and rubbing my back until there's no more to come up.

"Let's get you up" her voice breaks the silence of the room. I come round to the drip drip drip of the cistern and the cold of the concrete floor under my bare thigh. I pull at the hem of my skirt, bit late for modesty, but no need to add to Amy's trauma. She runs a wodge of bog roll under the tap for me to wipe my mouth and flushes as I stand up, leaning on the cubicle sides to keep upright. I'd like to say I felt better for that, but I'd be lying. I still feel like shit and now I've got a thumping headache from retching. The smell of the bogs is overwhelming, cloying floral with an undercurrent of stale piss and granny soap. I scoop water from a limescaley tap and swill out my mouth.

"Sorry about that" I smile weakly at Amy. "I didn't know I was so far gone"

"Never mind" she checks her makeup which doesn't look like it's budged all night. I'll never know how girls like her manage that. My mascara is pooled under my eyelids, and my lipstick went AWOL hours ago. My once carefully styled hair now looks like rats have been fighting in it. I wouldn't know where to start sorting it out even if I had the will, so I pull out the grips and run my fingers through it best I can.

"I think we should call it a night, don't you?" She stretches her mouth wide, rubbing her finger over the corner to wipe off a microscopic smudge of lipstick.

"Don't leave because of me" God, I really want to leave. I'm having fantasies about lying down and closing my eyes. Gotta admit, the toilet floor is looking pretty inviting right now.

"It's getting late and don't think leaving this lot is going to be a wrench. I mean, it's a bit of a busman's holiday at best. But we can stay if you like. You seemed to be getting on well with that Smurf one" she gives me what I think is supposed to be a knowing smile. I'm too tired and pissed to pull her up on it..

"Nah. Like you said it's not like we can't find a couple of hundred just like them anywhere we turn." I suddenly get another whiff of stale toilet and feel a swell of sick rising up from my stomach. I rush back to the toilet, but nothing comes up. I'm all clammy and sweaty and all of a sudden all I can smell is disinfectant, like it's up me nose or something. It's everywhere and I feel like I'm barely holding onto my lunch.

"I need air" I splutter between big acidy hiccups, my eyes ain't focusing too well on the water at the bottom of the toilet bowl, which is a blessing and a worry. "Promise me something Amy, if I ever get out of here alive then don't ever let me near vodka again."

"Don't go blaming the vodka. It could be the sambucca, the cava, the cider, the tequila" she's punctuating each word, counting on her fingers and I swear my stomach constricts with each tap of her finger against the other.

"Stop. Please...just urgh, leave off, alright?" That sweating is back and my hands are feeling slippery against the toilet seat as I brace myself over the bowl again, pushing myself to standing.

"I'm going to get some air. This place ain't helping nothing"

"Its freezing Molls" she pleads as I head out the door. "At least get your coat" but I ain't listening. Just focusing on finding the door and getting the hell out of here before I end up having to pay the landlord extra for the mess I'm gonna make of his carpet.

* * *

Amy's right. Its arctic outside. The cold hits like a slap to the face, the rain stopped hours ago but everything is still slicked shiny in the wet, cold water dripping off the bottom of the gutter above and plopping into a big puddle just outside the pub door. Without looking I plonk my foot into it and the icy water shoots up my bare leg "Jesus effing christ!" I stumble, and the other foot gets a dunking in the cold puddle as well. "Bollocks" I mutter to myself, trying to shake the water off my leg. That's these shoes ruined before they've done little more than walked up the High Street and back. I shouldn't have wasted my money on them. This whole evening has been a bloody waste of money and effort. Who was I kidding? Getting myself all dolled up for what? To sit in a shithole pub with with a bunch of losers and chuck money away on crap booze, most of which has ended up down the bogs anyway. Should have stayed in cleaning my kit, I'd have something to show for the night if I had. A whopping great hangover and knackered shoes ain't what I was aiming for.

"You ain't pissed yourself have you, West Ham? There's a snigger to his voice which gets right on my wick before I've even turned to face him.

"There's a word for blokes like you, you know" I try to ignore the cold water dripping down my foot, luckily Smurf's stupid grinning face is annoying enough to put it out of my mind. "And it ain't nice"

"Keep your hair on. I'm not stalking you. Came out for a fag" he holds up his lighter to prove his point. "Want one?" He lights one, holding it between puckered lips and cradling the flame behind his hand; his face briefly illuminated, the shadows cast by his eyelashes dancing over his cheeks.

God do I want one. I've been dead good since I cut out the fags, hardly slipped up at all, but right now? Smurf breathes out, the smoke swirls in a cloud in front of him and I breathe it in, I can taste it on my tongue, my body clamours for it. It want it so much, the blood rushes to my lungs in anticipation. "Nah" I say, my brain over riding my treacherous body. "I quit".

Smurf shrugs, and inhales again, pushing himself away from the wall he's been leaning against. "Thought it was meant to be warm down south? Mind you I'm used to colder" He turns up the collar on his coat, stamping his feet against the concrete to keep the blood moving through them.

"You're from Catterick; it ain't the North Pole"

"What would you know? Bet a cockney like you hasn't been north of Watford." He gives me a grin, god knows what for, part of me knows he just wants to get a rise out of me, and to be honest the drunk part of me will probably oblige but I must be maturing or something cause I don't take the bait.

"Seems a shame for you planks to come all this way just to get stuffed by us" I'm changing the subject. Still small talk but if I stand here I can still taste the smoke he exhales which is preferable. I don't want to be sitting inside surrounded by all them drinks and the smell of stale booze. I look down at my feet, my toes sticking out from underneath the strap, the nail polish shines a little in the lights of the pub. I'm gonna have to remember to take that off tonight before I hit my pit.

His hand is on my forehead, brushing away the hair that's fallen in front of my face. His finger tips are trembling a little, they are cold as he tucks it behind my ear. "You're really pretty" he says, his voice barely more than a murmur.

"Yeah, right" I scoff, remembering the panda eyed, birdsnest haired reflection in the the mirror of 5 minutes ago. His fingertips brush gently at the side of my cheek, travelling slowly towards my chin. I'm not looking at him, my eyes seem to be staring at the middle button of his jacket, but I don't move my head away from his touch. I used to hate Artan brushing my cheek like this, normally because he was trying to worm his way back into my good books after he'd been off with some girl, or chosen his mates over me. Artan seems like a million years ago. The girl that put up with his shit is long gone.

"Are you gonna look at me, West Ham?" his voice is still a murmur, his fingers, now bent trace along my jawline.

"It's Molly" my eyes flicker up to his, his pale face in shadow.

"Molly" the word rolls off his tongue slowly, a soft whisper as his face moves closer, his hand opening, moving back to cup my cheek. "You're so beautiful, Molly". His accent is stronger now; every syllable of 'beautiful' sounded out in his bouncy lyrical accent. I can feel his breath against my face now, it smells of cigarettes and I find it comforting.

He presses his lips against mine, softly. He doesn't seem so sure of himself now, like he's testing to see how likely it is that I'll turn him down. My brain is too fuddled to make a decision but apparently my body is well up for it. Without thinking my lips are pressing back against his, enjoying the feeling of someone touching me. My body moves closer to him, pushing against his as I start to take over the kiss, leaning in, pressing my lips against his. I had forgotten this, how intoxicating it is to be wanted, the feeling deep in my belly igniting, my heart thumping and the blood rushing through my veins. I've been getting my adrenaline fix from training these days, I've been so focussed that I ain't thought about none of this stuff for so long and it didn't realise I had missed it.

He breaks off the kiss, he's panting, surprised as much as I am about how quickly this has escalated. He's still holding my face, and looking at into my eyes, I can't say I care for the intimacy he's trying to create. This ain't about making a connection, it's about scratching an itch I forgot I had. I'm not interested in getting emotional about this. I take his collar in my hands and pull him towards him me again, this time I'm kissing him proper, grabbing at his jacket front and pulling him close to me as I lean back against the cold damp brick wall of the pub. My hands travel down and round his body, pulling him closer, moving against him shamelessly, making it very clear what I want. I can feel he's up for this, that ain't a fag packet in his jeans pocket.

He don't need much more of an invitation, his mouth moves from mine, down my neck "No hickies" I gasp. I may be pissed and getting carried away but I've got enough to contend with without everyone taking the piss tomorrow. I can feel his mouth curving into a smile against my collarbone "What's it worth?" Cheeky bugger. I reach down and cup the bulge in his trousers, it's promising "I won't be helping out with this for a start" is my reply before his mouth is back on mine.

His hands roam up my side, not quite soft enough to tickle but like he's looking for something, a zip or a waistband, not finding anything he tugs at the neckline of my dress, his lips have moved again, and now they follow his fingertips, across the swell of my breasts. God I've missed this; this being wanted, this being needed. I don't care if it's just for now, that's good enough for me. I throw my head back looking up at the night sky. My breath is fast and shallow, clouds of condensation forming in the cold dark air. Well, not too dark, I realise where we are is a little too well lit, I ain't putting on a show here. His mates and mine will be out soon and I don't want them or anyone else copping an eyeful.

"Oi" I pull away from him "not here". You can almost see the thoughts cross his face, the mental calculations he's making. I don't know where he's staying tonight but I ain't sneaking him into our block, besides I share with Maz and she's not that heavy a sleeper. He looks around, taking my hand and leading me down an alley down the side of the pub. A security light clicks on flooding the alley with light, so that's out. He's glancing up and around, the light is so bright that I can't tell what lies beyond its beam. "Wait there" he says striding down the alley, glancing back at me with every step as if I'm some kind of flight risk. He disappears into the darkness and I hear a thump followed by "Bollocks".

"Everything ok?" I ask into the darkness

"Walked into a bin" comes the reply. I laugh, following the direction of this voice "You might wanna brush up on your night recon skills"

"Piss off" I can hear the laughter in his voice. The security light clicks off and everything is dark, I close my eyes, the glow of the light is still a shadow on my retina. "You still there?" I ask into the darkness. A hand slips around my waist and I jump "I'm pretty good at stealth tactics" he don't need much more guidance to find where he was before we moved, his hands are back on me, tugging the neckline of my top down more, past the top of my bra. Thank you elastic. His fingertips are cold, or my skin is burning up, I don't know which but it feels bloody good. It feels even better when he starts to kiss my skin, his mouth tracing the line of lace and the swelling flesh underneath. His hand is cupping my breast, this thumb brushing against my hardening nipple and I moan at how good it feels, how if he would just keep doing that it would go on feeling better and better. He keeps his hands where they are and goes back to kissing me. He's a good kisser, nipping at my lips and teasing me before pressing himself fully against me, his mouth opening and his tongue flickering against mine. He tenses and breaks off the kiss as my fingers move up under his shirt "Christ your hands are cold" I can feel the shiver run through him and his skin prickles into goosebumps.

"I could warm them somewhere else" I offer pushing my hip in the direction I'm talking about.

"Not yet" I can make out the outline of his face in the darkness, my eyes must be adjusting after the bright light. He reaches up and takes my hands in his, rubbing them and blowing his warm breath on them, warmth growing as his dry skin moves across mine. "I think there's a yard over here," he steps further into the darkness, holding a my hand. "You better not be leading me into a bin" I feel the hem of my dress brush against something, snagging on a edge of some metal fencing. Underfoot the ground seems less firm, squashy, maybe grass? No it's too flat for that, behind Smurf the night is less dark, a glow from a window? No it's too dim. I hear a clatter and mumbling voices, and I realise they are muffled by the mechanical hum of a vent. The smell of curry wafts towards me and my stomach rumbles. Hopefully not too loud. We must be in the yard behind a take away or something.

Smurf stops and pulls me against him, turning me around so my back is pressed up against a dry brick wall, warmer than the wall of the pub. I don't spend too long noticing what it feels like, mostly my attention is on what his hands and lips are doing to me. They're turning my insides to jelly. From what I can feel he's got a nice body. I can feel the muscles of his back move under the smooth warm skin, I sink my fingers into them, pulling his body closer and closer to mine, there's no room for his hands and I move against him, enjoying the feeling. It's been too bloody long since I've had someone pressed against me like this. He's pulled my jacket down over my shoulder, dragging my dress down with it. I don't really notice the cold air against my bare shoulder. He's slipping my bra strap down as well, then tugging the cup down as much as he can. I can feel his mouth through the lace of the cup, dragging over my nipple, scratching it and it feels fucking amazing. I'm arching myself into him, pressing myself against his mouth.

His other hand has worked its way up my skirt, his fingers digging into my thigh as he moves in closer to where I need him. It's getting to be situation critical now. All the time he's murmuring god knows what, I'm not taking anything much in beyond the what he's doing to me and how it's making me feel. His fingers brush against my pants and we both gasp. I'm biting down on my lip to keep myself quiet as his fingertips work in small circles, brushing and teasing me and I feel like it's too much and not enough all at the same time. "Are you sure, Molly?" he asks "I ain't gonna change my mind if that's what you're asking" I reply, trying to keep my brain and mouth connected while he's strumming his fingers against my crotch "but I ain't got anything on me, so…." my sentence runs off into a hiss as he pushes the fabric of my knickers away and his fingers are moving across me now.

"I'll sort it" he's cut off as I kiss him mainly to keep my mouth from shouting out god knows what as he ain't letting up on the pace. I'm not going to last long that's for sure. I break away "Now would be a good time to do that" my hands are at his belt and then fiddling with his fly as he digs into his pocket for his wallet. The dim light glints off the foil wrapper, he's got it clamped between his teeth as he tries to rip it open. "Give it here" I take it from him, thinking if I free up his hands he might carry on doing what he was before; he's been distracted by finding the condom. Luckily he understands what I'm at, and somehow I manage to sort him out as he picks up the pace again. God knows how I can perform under this pressure, all the military training must be paying off.

I tug my knickers down, stepping out of them and shoving them in pocket. Just along the wall from where we are there's a bricked up window, I perch on the old sill, the paint old and peeling, rough against my arse, not that I notice. I've got other more pressing matters going on right now, "What are you waiting for, an invitation from the queen?" That might be a bit uncharitable of me, it's not often that you get a bloke come along who takes the time to make sure you're up for it. Mostly they just assume and then spend the rest of the time badgering you until you relent or find some way of getting away from them. "You're a bit bloody impatient aren't you?" his tone of voice puts me at ease, he's almost laughing at me. I can feel him hesitate briefly, the muscles in his back tense, he takes a deep breath in like he's about to jump off a tall bridge and needs a shove. "Smurf" he looks at me, our eyes accustomed to the darkness now I can make out the outline of his face. I lean in and kiss him gently to calm his nerves. It does the trick, with a murmur of "Molly" against my lips he pushes gently into me until there's no space between us, my legs wrap tightly against his hips. The cold of the night air brushing against our naked skin cooling the sweat from us as we move together.

* * *

I'm not gonna say it went on a long time. But it got me where I needed to go, and I didn't hear no complaints from him neither. We're still for a while after, he's leaning heavily against me, the sweat on our bodies turns cold and I start to shiver as my breath comes back to normal. I hate this bit. When it's over and you don't know what to say to each other. You should shouldn't you? I mean given what you've just done ain't no one should feel embarrassed, but you do. He steps away and I slither down from my perch on the window ledge. Something twinges, I hope I ain't got a splinter in my arse, cos that's gonna take some imagination to explain. My legs still feel wobbly and weak, and I lean against the wall while they get used to holding me up again. The cold wind is blowing up my skirt and I'm feeling the loss of Smurf's hips between my legs. It was nice. He was nice. I could tell he was holding off for me, which again is rare to non-existent in my experience. I'm glad of the darkness as I fail to get my knickers back on at the first attempt, my legs still ain't doing a great job of holding me up. He's got his back to me and I hear a zip being pulled up just as I finally get my pants back on. I feel less self-conscious now I have my underwear on, and I tug my top back in place and pull my jacket close against my body.

"OK?" he clears his throat as he asks. His hand reaches back and grasps mine as he leads me over discarded piles of cardboard towards the gate. I stumble on my heel and knock into a bin as we pick our way across the yard. There's a yell from the back of the takeaway; someone has heard us leaving. "Quick. Run" he's holding tight to my hand and pulling me along as we giggle at the absurdity of getting caught like a couple of kids. We stumble through the alley and the security light snaps on making us giggle more and we tumble into the street between the pub and the takeaway, breathless and laughing. He's still holding my hand and I don't mind, it feels less awkward this way. The street is empty and I dig into my pocket for my phone. There's a lot of missed calls and text messages. I notice the time. I need to back at barracks in half an hour.

"Shit. Shit. Shit" the phone buzzing in my hand and I press answer, holding the phone away from my ear as Maz can be loud when she's stressed. They've gone and got a taxi, tired of waiting for me to turn up. "Where are you?" she asks.

"I'm at the pub"

"You can't be we looked all over for you" I grin across at Smurf and shrug. "Stay where you are, we can pick you up, but you're bunging in the tip to the driver to get us back on time"

"Alright, alright." I placate her "Just get here soon. I don't want to be up on a charge in the morning" I can hear her squawking down the phone at that, I expect the whole street could and I cut her off in mid flow. I've got a 20 minute ride back to barracks to sit through it.

"What about you?" I ask, Smurf has put his arm around me and it's nice and warm tucked up against him. "Point me in the direction of the Travelodge and I'll be fine" he drops a kiss against my hairline. "You mean you had a hotel room with a bed and everything and I've got splinters in my arse for nothing? You bugger" I try and sound affronted, but I know if I'd laid down I'd be out for the count by now. He reaches across and takes the phone from my hand "What are you doing?" I ask.

"Giving you my number. Send me a text or something. Maybe we could do this again if you come up to Catterick" he taps away, and there's a buzz from his pocket where he's sent himself a text. "Just make it soon; we're off to Afghan in four months" he leans across, kissing me gently on the lips, lingering slightly before handing my phone back. "Thank you, Molly" he says softly. Not sarky or nothing, like he means it. He turns and walks away. I watch him go, he doesn't look back, just turns the corner and keeps on walking.

 **Yes, yes. I know. There are other stories that I need to get on with and finish, and I will, but the rusty cogs needed an oiling and I do love a one shot, almost as much as I love picking away at the relationship between Molly and Smurf.**

 **I need to thank itsembarrassing for reading the early parts of this and saying lovely things to make me want to carry on. Secondly I need to thank those who continue to send me little reviews and messages about Thames and Half a Person. This one shot was a bit of an exercise in trying to get back into writing; I had reached a stage where nothing was coming out right so I just stopped. I haven't picked them back up yet but with any luck I won't feel so much like they are impossible when I do.**

 **Thank you for reading and hopefully reviewing.**

 **xx P**


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